Today's Word

Today’s Word: Dwelling

Steve · November 22, 2013 · 1 Comment

While in Arizona a few weeks ago, we visited Montezuma Castle National Monument, with its amazingly preserved Pre-Columbian cliff-dwellings that were built and inhabited by the Sinagua people beginning around 700 AD. Standing far below and looking up at the five-story structure, it’s hard to imagine what life must have been like when the structures were inhabited, hard to believe just how treacherous it would have been to live under such conditions, scampering up and down ladders carrying fish and water from nearby Beaver Creek and clinging to the side of a mountain for shelter from weather and enemies.

cliff2 — Montezuma Castle National Monument, Arizona. SJG photo

And yet, life remains treacherous even today. Our dwellings may be more sophisticated, but we often still live under the dangerous conditions imposed by both the society around us and the decisions we make that contribute to those dangers. Our streets and roads are as treacherous as any hand-crafted ladder, and we still cling to things because we somehow believe they will protect us in one way or another. And so we must consider just where we place our trust and where we seek our shelter from the spiritual storms and enemies of our lives. Equally important is our ability to provide a place for God to dwell within us, as Paul suggests in his letter to the Ephesians (3:17-19): “that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith; that you, rooted and grounded in love may have strength to comprehend with all the holy ones what is the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge, so that you may be filled with all the fullness of God.”

Our dwelling place is in God and God’s in us. We fit perfectly together, rooted in love, a communion carved of one piece and clinging inseparably together through time.

Ask yourself in silence: To what do I cling?

Today’s Word: Holy

Steve · November 21, 2013 · Leave a Comment

Sacred Heart in Chinandega, Nicaragua market. SJG photo

Sanctus — holy — the brass candleholder gleams,
here in the chapel at noon.
I am making my presence known to the Holy One
and the Holy One to me.
We behold each other
and I know I am not worthy to even be here,
know that mounds of dark failure and sin,
— a life full, day full, moment full —
(it doesn’t matter how much or how little)
should separate me from sanctus but do not.

The stained-glass face on the side window,
above the radiating and sacred heart,
holds my glance like a Word I’ve never seen before
as I try to puzzle out its meaning and source.
And yet this face knows my name, my life,
and never blinks or changes expression,
revealing divine compassion and grace
so abundant I would drown
were it water.

For I am covered in grace, not sin.
Enveloped in hope, not in my past.
Secure in that gaze.
Wrapped in that holy.
Held in that love.
Sanctus. Sanctus. Sanctus.

Ask yourself in silence: Where do I experience the holy and sacred? What holds my gaze and points me to the divine?

Today’s Word: Erosion

Steve · November 20, 2013 · 1 Comment

Standing on the south rim of the Grand Canyon just a few weeks ago, I watched the setting sun splash its light against the ancient red walls of the canyon, aware that all this beauty was created by the destructive force of the Colorado River over millions of years. The continuous flow of water over stone created this natural wonder of the world. From erosion comes beauty and new life.

We spend the first halves of our lives growing and gathering — families, friends, careers, financial stability. All good things. But we are also aware as we grow older that things are slowly eroding around us, a flood of undercurrents and losses that can leave us speechless and hanging on for our lives. We watch as family and friends die and our own bodies begin to change and fail us. We look in the mirror and find someone we hardly recognize. And yet, there is beauty that comes with this aging process and, if we pay close attention, we receive a gift — an awareness of God and God’s presence that perhaps we did not see when we were younger. For what once was just water and rocks — the stuff of life — has become evidence of a love that extends beyond time and knows no boundaries. A love and grace wider than the Grand Canyon. For from the erosion of self comes the bounty of God and the newness of a new kind of life.

Ask yourself in silence: What do I see now that I couldn’t see when I was younger? How has the presence and image of God changed in my life?

Today’s Word: Community

Steve · November 12, 2013 · 3 Comments

Taize2 — Taizé service at Chapel of the Holy Cross, Sedona. SJG photo

Last week while in Sedona, we attended a Taizé prayer service at the simple yet majestic Chapel of the Holy Cross, built into the side of a mountain just outside of Sedona in the mid-1950s. [For more information on the chapel and its designer — a woman architect who was a student of Frank Lloyd Wright — see an article I wrote when we visited two years ago.] Like the chapel itself, Taizé services are simple in their elegance and designed to draw all Christians into communion with each other and God, regardless of denominational lines. Founded in the aftermath of World War II in Taizé, France, the Taizé community was founded as a “parable of community that wants its life to be a sign of reconciliation between divided Christians and between separated peoples.” The services are simple and employ both silent meditation and simple mantra-style chants that are easily sung regardless of language barriers.

Taize1 — Taizé service at Chapel of the Holy Cross, Sedona. SJG photo

That Monday evening outside Sedona, both locals and visitors filled the small chapel, singing with the guitar-led choir, listening to scripture (Philippians 1:1-7) and, one by one, placing our prayers as small votive candles around a crucifix lying on the floor near the altar. In the presence of these connected strangers, I found that our simplest actions of devotion and prayer can seem the most meaningful. No thundering music or pulpit-pounding preacher this night, but rather uncommon acts of faith and quiet prayer drew and held us together, like a small chapel clinging to the side of an impossibly beautiful landscape, beckoning us to forgive ourselves and one another and bind ourselves to a God who knows us despite our creeds and places of birth. Amen, I whispered, the simplest of words that reminds me to simply believe.

Ask yourself in silence: Where do I find community? Where have I found community in the most unlikely place?

For more information on Taizé, visit their multi-lingual website.

Today’s Word: Restoration

Steve · November 11, 2013 · 5 Comments

coxscomb — Cockscomb Butte, Sedona. SJG photo

Centennial Trail in Sedona, Arizona is an easy, short, paved hike, only two-thirds of a mile out and back. More of a stroll than a hike, really. The view is pretty good of the nearby red rock formations, including the imposing Cockscomb Butte. The sunsets are great because it’s a flat, open area and you can see both the sunset itself and the golden light that plays on the mountains to the horizon’s east. So while it’s not much of a trail, the views can be rewarding. But the most interesting thing about Centennial Trail, for me, is the knowledge that it was built on the site of Sedona’s long-time city dump. You can still see the sun glancing off small bits of glass and metal that are the remains of decades of debris. The city restored the area for Sedona’s Centennial celebration in 2002, thus the name.

stones — On Centennial Trail, Sedona. SJG photo

The trail is a reminder that beauty — both the physical beauty of the world and our own inner beauty that flows from the presence of the Spirit of God — can very often lie under our histories of neglect and even abuse. We can walk the paths of our lives and feel like the remains of someone else’s life, not realizing that we are actually choice spots of radiant beauty, vantage points from which others might someday be able to pass en route to glimpsing the glory of God just beyond us. We await only the nurturing touch and the gentle weeding of the gardener’s hand. Restored…we can be restored.

Ask yourself in silence: What is the debris of my life? From what do I need to be restored?

Note: I wrote a similar piece a few years ago about another former city dump in Ft. Bragg, California.